


In Between Days

by capeswithhoods



Series: No Escaping Gravity [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anger Management, Drama, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 03:09:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capeswithhoods/pseuds/capeswithhoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A juxtaposition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Between Days

The minutes tick past; he's wasted thirteen already, and his therapist clears his throat, patience wearing thin behind his false smile.

"When is the last time you ate?" he asks.

The corner of Grantaire's mouth quirks up. "Yesterday."

His therapist folds his hands in his lap and leans forward in his chair, making it creak indignantly beneath him. "You told me you have no food, nor any money. We talked about you lying, Grantaire. I can't help you if you aren't honest with me."

The tiny smile vanishes from Grantaire's face and he turns dark, faraway eyes on the therapist. "I was at a friend's," he says flatly.

His therapist sits back up, honest surprise naked on his face before he schools it back into his practiced, plastic smile. "You've made a friend, have you?"

Grantaire wants to punch him right in his condescending face. "Yes. His name is Bahorel."

"How did you meet?"

Grantaire's eyes fix onto a painting of flowers on the wall. "The meetings."

Out of the corner of his eye, his therapist looks predictably disappointed.

\------

Bahorel lets out a booming laugh, making the sea of children at his knees giggle more than they already had been.

"Alright, alright, everyone needs to calm down. It's time to take a nap," he says, nearly interrupted by a chorus of disappointment.

"Hey, do you know what time it will be _after_ nap time?" Bahorel asks, smile spreading across his face.

There is silence for a moment before one of the little girls says, "Snack time!" and then all of the children are chanting it, out of time, along with her.

"That's right," Bahorel says with a chuckle. "So if you're all really good and take naps for me, you'll wake up to a snack! How's that sound?"

Ten little voices all echo the same sentiment of _good_ , and the children disperse to grab their tiny blankets and pillows while Bahorel stands back up and stretches out to better keep an eye on them.

\------

Grantaire doesn't know why he didn't go through with not seeing his therapist anymore like he said he was going to, just like he doesn't know why he doesn't do a _lot_ of things.

There's an empty bottle of wine propped between his legs, and it didn't have any answers for him either. He's sure he'll feel more drunk than he is if he stands up, so he doesn't plan on it anytime soon, content, or mostly so, to remain curled up at the end of a ratty couch he's relatively sure is older than him.

At least he's home and can't make a fool of himself again.

He turns his phone off for good measure and drops it to the floor where he'll forget about it later.

\------

The late afternoon sun is bright enough that Bahorel has to wear his sunglasses beneath his helmet, and he speeds through the traffic just carefully enough not to draw attention to himself on his way home.

He barely has time to park and kill the ignition before Jehan is next to him, wisps of hair that have escaped his braid framing his smiling face. "We're getting an early dinner," he states, and gestures back toward the steps of Bahorel's building where Feuilly is leaning against the rough brick. "And you're coming."

"I don't get a choice in this, do I?" Bahorel asks as he tugs his helmet off.

"No," Jehan says with an echo from Feuilly, and it makes Bahorel chuckle quietly.

"You guys mind if I invite someone else?" he asks, tugging a glove off to preemptively reach into his pocket for his phone.

Jehan shrugs and glances back at Feuilly who shakes his head and says, "Shit, go for it."

Bahorel grins and searches through his contacts for R, though the grin doesn't last when the call sends him straight to voicemail. He leaves a brief message and slips his phone back into his pocket, a little disappointed. "Guess he's busy, so it's just us."

"There's always next time," Feuilly offers, finally pushing away from the building to join Jehan at Bahorel's side. "Now come on, we put off having lunch for _two hours_ waiting for you to get out of work."

\------

He hasn't had cable since he was in the hospital, and Grantaire doesn't think he misses it, not really, but right now he wishes he had something mindless to capture his attention. Now would be a great time to have a DVD player, and he curses himself for selling his old one as he stares at the rickety shelf holding the small collection of movies he still owns.

There's another bottle of wine in the fridge and he pushes himself up off the couch, knocking down the empty bottle with a clatter as he moves to retrieve it. To his credit, he barely stumbles on his way to the part of the large room that passes for a kitchen. He decides that getting the wine is definitely in his best interest, because his skin is too tight and he aches down to his bones and he's not nearly as drunk as he'd like to be to ignore it.

\------

Bahorel checks his phone twice during the ten minute car ride, and Jehan gives him a look with a raised eyebrow and a smirk turning at his lips. Once they park, he shoots Grantaire a quick text, just in case, and makes sure his phone is on vibrate so he'll know if he gets a response.

Feuilly has brought them to a small locally owned restaurant that he's been raving about for weeks now, and it's obvious how excited he is to bring Bahorel and Jehan here together now that they all have a free evening that coincides with one another.

\------

Grantaire sprawls out on the couch, nearly facedown against the cushions with an arm and a leg dangling off the edge. He thinks he'll stay like this for the rest of the night, perhaps he'll even sleep here instead of making the short trip over to his bed. It makes it easier to reach his wine, set on the floor next to the couch, at any rate.

His dangling fingers trace the mouth of the bottle, following the smooth curve of the glass, and he thinks about how dangerous that glass can be when it's broken. There's a scar, almost an inch long on his left wrist from a broken bottle, and it would've been longer, probably deeper, too (it was already deep enough that it wouldn't stop bleeding, not even when he cleaned and bandaged it) if he hadn't panicked at the sight of his skin pulling open and the blood pulsing out. Grantaire had wanted to go out the way the world made him feel - like he was being bled dry - but he ended up swallowing too many pills and too much alcohol instead, so he could simply fall asleep and never wake up again. But he had woken up, and that was probably the worst part of it all.

Grantaire shifts, leans down a bit and grabs the bottle to take a long swig, licking the bittersweet taste from his lips after he swallows.

The sun is still out, but he thinks he'll go to sleep now - there's nothing else to do, after all, so he sets the bottle back down and turns onto his side, pulling his knees up toward his chest so they hang over the edge of the cushion. Dreamless sleep doesn't wait long to take him.

\------

"You should've been there, I'm telling you, Enjolras' face was priceless," Feuilly insists, a forkful of potato dangling between his mouth and his plate. "I thought he was going to punch Marius right then and there."

"All he could talk about was Cosette," Jehan confirms, smirking wryly. "It would've been a lot more endearing if Enjolras hadn't been trying to get us all organised."

Feuilly finally takes the bite of hovering food and shakes his head as he swallows. "No, it's pathetic. He's pining so hard and he's talked to her, what, once?"

Bahorel laughs and takes a sip of his soda. "It's about time he found someone, though, don't you think?"

Jehan's smile brightens. "Exactly! I think it's wonderful. I told him he should buy her flowers and ask her on a proper date."

Feuilly rolls his eyes, but there's a smile on his lips as well. "He looked like he was going to puke at the suggestion. He has _no_ idea how to woo someone."

"You aren't much better," Jehan says, and he glances away with an innocent expression as Feuilly turns an incredulous stare on him and Bahorel loses himself in a fit of laughter.

"He's got you there. You'd have spent the rest of forever trying to figure out how to date a poet if it weren't for me."

Feuilly turns his stare on Bahorel and presses a hand to his chest. "Et-tu, Bahorel?"

Bahorel grins an shrugs. "It worked out for you though, come on."

"Yeah," Feuilly admits, glancing at Jehan with a smile. "Your loss, man."

Jehan blushes and nudges Feuilly's foot under the table a little harder than strictly necessary, but it gets his point across and pulls an unneeded apology from Feuilly.

\------

It's too late - or too early - when Grantaire wakes up, stretching the stiff aches from his neck and back with a groan, and the clock on his microwave tells him it's nearly three in the morning. He's sober now, and out of wine, and his head feels like its stuffed with cotton and hornets.

He doesn't move for a few minutes while he tries to adjust his eyes to the dim, yellowy light filtering in his window from outside. It feels like a floodlight shining right in his face.

Another few moments has him groping for his phone, not that he expected anyone to call him, but it would be a good thing to have nearby with how shitty he's feeling anyway. He finds it after searching the floor all around the couch and waits for it to turn on impatiently. The light from the screen is unbearable, but he doesn't turn it back off because there are two missed calls and voice messages, and a text.

The first message is from his sister, a simple, "Hey, I haven't heard from you in a few weeks, call me back. Love you," that makes Grantaire almost sick with guilt. He knows he should call her back, but he doubts he will, not for a while.

The second is from Bahorel, and his stomach flips in a way that he can't place as excitement nor nervousness as he listens to it. "R! Hi! It's me. I'm grabbing dinner with a couple friends and wanted to see if you'd like to join us, but I guess you're busy. Call me later or something."

The text from Bahorel simply reads, _Are you OK?_ and Grantaire wishes he had more wine.


End file.
